I've often been accused of having too much imagination. Now, this is unquantifiable, of course, because how much imagination is too much? I suppose it depends on the circumstances - now for me, being a writer, having a huge imagination is a very important thing. I can't just write the same book over and over again only changing names, locations, hair colour and the length of ...well, I was going to say first kiss, but you fill that one in for yourselves, all right? So I need a massive imagination.
But, for example, when flying..well, I don't have to tell you that an overactive imagination is not the best friend of being shot into the air whilst strapped into a metal tube, do I? And, just for the record, simply sitting there rocking and muttering 'oh god, oh god, we're all going to die' isn't really imaginative. No, imagination curses you with the visions of exactly how you are going to die, your grieving relatives, the number and type of flowers at your funeral, and the terrible way in which the loss of you is going to affect every single person on the planet.
Oh. Just me, then. Well, never mind, the principle stands.
Surely though I'm not the only person to look up and wonder what it must be like to be a tree? Does everything down at ground level look as if it's moving in 'speeded up motion' like an old black and white film? Is night time just like one, long blink? And what colour is time travel? And if I were left-handed instead of right(ish) handed, would my whole life be different? Would I be a different person? Or just me with worse handwriting?
So for the rest of today I am going to sit somewhere, surrounded by chocolate (it is still Easter, isn't it? I mean, Monday counts...) and tea, and imagine myself on a desert island, surrounded by coconuts (it's fine, I like coconuts) and a hazy sea...
And now I'm wondering where pilchards come from and how big they get if they don't get caught and put in a tin. Do they eat people if they get big enough? Do pilchards swim around desert islands....?
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